The Journal of Mortifying Moments

by Robyn Harding

  “This is my partner, Joseph Everett,” Trevor says debonairly. “Joseph, this is one of our directors, Sonja Fletcher.”

  “Pleased to meet you, Sonja.” Joseph takes her hand and sort of bows to it. As much as I like him, I’m annoyed at this obsequious gesture.

  “And you, Joseph,” Sonja says with a self-satisfied smile. “Kerry!” She turns to me. “Where’s your mysterious fiancé? We’ve all been looking forward to meeting him.”

  “Have you?” I say, stalling for time. “Well . . . you see, Sonja . . .” Trevor sticks a martini in my hand, and I immediately take a long sip.

  “You haven’t met Sam?” Trevor comes to my aid. “Well, I have to tell you he is absolutely stunning. I’d say a cross between Patrick Dempsey and JFK Jr. He’s an executive with Kazzerkoff Developments, don’t you know? It was just our luck that he was tied up with a work engagement tonight so Joseph and I have the pleasure of escorting Kerry.”

  “Ummm . . . yes,” I echo. “Tied up with a work engagement.” I dunk my lips back into the martini.

  “What a shame,” she says somewhat skeptically. “Well, we’ll meet him another time perhaps? Enjoy yourselves.” And she slinks back to her table.

  With that ugliness out of the way, the rest of the evening is not too bad. As planned, Shelley and her husband have saved us an inconspicuous table at the back of the spacious ballroom where we can mock our coworkers’ outfits, spouses, and dancing styles undetected.

  “Look at Dave and his latest conquest,” Shelley whispers as he and Shannon take to the dance floor.

  “Poor thing,” Trevor says. “So pretty and yet so dumb.”

  “I’d hate to be in her shoes,” I say, perhaps a little too fervently. Dave and his beautiful actress are swaying seductively to some sickeningly romantic song by Celine Dion.

  But after three martinis, I am hardly noticing Dave or the empty place at the table intended for Sam. In fact, I’ve almost tricked myself into believing that all is well in our relationship and he actually is tied up at a work function. As long as I don’t venture outside my safety zone in this back corner, I will be fine. I even manage to restrain myself from rushing to the dance floor when “I Ran” by A Flock of Seagulls begins to play. But unfortunately, there is no escaping the fact that my bladder is going to burst if I don’t go to the ladies’ room soon.

  I skulk along the outside wall and manage to exit the Orca Room basically unnoticed. The bathroom is across the foyer and down the hall. I scurry as quickly as my high heels will allow, rushing so as not to be seen by any nosy coworkers or leave a puddle of pee on the floor. I made it! Alone in the elegant ladies’ room I use the toilet then face myself in the vanity mirror above the row of sinks. I wash my hands and take in my reflection. I actually look quite good—my slightly red eyes are the only evidence of my emotionally distraught day. And really, the bloodshot look could just as easily be caused by my martini consumption. No one need know that I’ve spent the afternoon crying—they will just think I am an alcoholic!

  I carefully apply more lipstick, fluff my hair, and prepare to rejoin the party. I am feeling even stronger now than when I left the room. In fact, I may march right across the dance floor to my back corner table. What’s the big deal? My fiancé is tied up at a work thingy, and so I came with my two handsome gay dates! I’ve got nothing to feel ashamed of! With a flourish I pull open the ladies’ room door, stride confidently into the hall, and walk smack-dab into Dave.

  “Ahhhhhhh!” I scream, sort of running on the spot and flapping my hands in hysterics. “Ahhhhhhhhh!”

  “Calm down, will you?” He hushes me, annoyed by my reaction. “I need to talk to you.”

  “Well . . .,” I say, collecting myself. “I don’t really think we have anything to talk about.”

  “I think we do.” He grabs my arm and escorts me to a secluded seating area down the hall and around the corner. I really dislike Dave, but in my current inebriated and weakened state, I must admit his forcefulness is kind of sexy.

  “What do you want, Dave?” I say, when we are seated on the brocade settee. I am enunciating carefully so as not to slur.

  “Look,” he says. “I know you’ve had a tough year, but this wasn’t necessary.”

  “Sorry?” I am sincerely confused.

  “Kerry . . .,” he says with exasperation. “Are you going to make me spell it out?”

  “Maybe you’d better.”

  “Fine . . .” He takes a swig from the beer in his hand. “You didn’t have to do all this.”

  “All what?”

  “Come on, Kerry—this whole fiancé thing. If you wanted to be with me, why didn’t you just say something? You didn’t have to pretend to be engaged to make me jealous and realize I want you.”

  “What?” I stand up in shock and outrage, but my three-inch heels and the three martinis cause me to fall back to my seat. “What did you say, Dave?” I ask more calmly.

  “Come on,” he says, putting his hand on my knee. “Everyone’s talking about it. How you made up a fiancé so you wouldn’t look so lonely and pathetic? Sending yourself roses, wearing that big fake ring and everything? But I realized that this wasn’t about what everyone else thought; this was about me. You were doing this because of Shannon and me. You thought that if I felt I couldn’t have you, that it would make me want you more. And you were right, Kerry. I can see now that Shannon isn’t right for me. You and I have so much more in common.”

  “Oh my God,” I say in a small voice.

  “You won, babe,” he says, tilting my chin to look at him. “I do want you.”

  “Oh, my God!” I say in horror.

  And then I bolt. Bolt might be a stronger verb than necessary to describe me tottering down the hallway in my high heels and fitted dress, but I am moving as fast as I can. I run directly to the elevator and frantically stab the down arrow. I vaguely recall that I left my wrap at the table with Trevor and Joseph, but I’m sure they’ll bring it home for me. And frankly, I don’t care if I freeze to death in thirty-degree weather in a strapless dress. My life is not worth living!

  “Kerry! Stop!” Dave calls angrily just as I step into the elevator.

  The doors close, and I lean against the back wall, closing my eyes. I can feel the tears forming behind my eyelids, threatening to seep out and ruin my makeup. I can’t believe they were all whispering about me and laughing at me. I admit I did go on and on about the details of my impending wedding, but that was an attempt to get myself excited about the prospect and to cover my own doubts! I can’t believe they thought I was making it all up!

  When the doors open seconds later, I make a beeline for the row of taxis outside the front door. That’s when I hear my name called again.

  “Kerry!”

  Damn that Dave! He must have taken the stairs and beaten me down here!

  “Kerry! Wait!”

  But slowly I realize that it is not Dave’s voice calling me. I stop and turn around.

  “Sam,” I say hoarsely.

  “What’s going on?” he asks, approaching me. His face is a mixture of concern and annoyance.

  “I—I’m going home!” I burst into tears. “You—you—you didn’t—you didn’t . . .”

  “Calm down,” he says gently, taking me in his arms and holding me against his black sports coat. “It’s okay,” he whispers, stroking my hair. “I’m here now. It’s okay.”

  But it’s not really okay. I’m very drunk. My makeup is ruined, and much of it is smeared over the front of Sam’s jacket. Suddenly, I don’t even want to talk about why he didn’t call me today or even if we’re still engaged. I just want to get out of here, and away from everyone I work with. I want to curl up in my bed and pretend this day never happened. I look up at him. “Can you please take me home?”

  “What about your coat?” he asks, taking in my skimpy dress.

  I shake my head and begin walking toward the front doors. I feel him slip his blazer over my bare shoulders before he puts h
is arm around me and leads me to his car.

  Chapter 30

  When I wake up my head is throbbing and my mouth is parched. “Ohhhhh, gawwwwwwwwwd . . .,” I moan in agony, rolling over and preparing to go back to sleep. That’s when I notice a naked Sam lying beside me. Surely his nakedness would indicate that we are still engaged? Or at the very least still seeing each other?

  “Hey,” he says, smiling at me sleepily. “You okay?”

  “Yeah . . .”

  “We need to talk.”

  “I know we do.” I sit up and my brain sloshes painfully inside my skull. “I feel awful.”

  “You drank way too much,” he says.

  “I know. Actually . . . can you excuse me for a second?” I run to the bathroom and barf last night’s martinis and wine into the toilet. This is not good. I feel absolutely hideous, and a glance in the mirror confirms that I look it, too. I slip into the shower and feel the beads of hot water tapping away at the pain in my head. Perhaps if I stay in here long enough I’ll be able to wash away the shame and humiliation that are creeping back into my consciousness?

  About fifteen minutes later, Sam enters the bathroom and pees into the toilet beside me with only the transparent shower curtain between us. We must definitely still be engaged. “Are you ever coming out of there?” He peeks his head into the shower.

  “I’m almost done,” I say. But I stall another ten minutes until the water begins to cool and I have no excuse but to emerge. Wrapped in my robe with a towel twisted around my head, I find him in the kitchen making coffee.

  “Do you want some toast?” he asks.

  “Not right now,” I respond, my stomach churning at the mention of food.

  “I’m going to make some.”

  “Okay. Make sure you unplug the coffeemaker.”

  “Right. Do you want some juice?”

  “I don’t have any juice.”

  “Oh . . . water?”

  “Yes, please.”

  When we’ve exhausted the breakfast banter, we sit across from each other at the tiny kitchen table. “Shall I start?” he asks.

  “Okay.” I stare at my water glass, running my fingers along the cool, wet surface.

  “Why didn’t you call me yesterday?”

  “Why didn’t you call me?”

  “I did,” he says. “I called you on your cell several times, but you didn’t answer. I even left messages.”

  “Well I didn’t hear it ring, and I had it with me all day. Besides, I was home. You could have called me here!”

  “I thought you’d be out Christmas shopping!” he says angrily. “Look, Kerry, I was pissed off about the way you acted at my office party. I decided I’d spend the day at the site because we’ve got a lot to do before the Christmas break. But at least I took the initiative and called you.”

  “I called you, too, but you didn’t answer.”

  “I was on-site! There’s construction and equipment running. I can’t hear my phone. Why didn’t you leave a message?”

  “Because . . . well . . .”

  “Well what?”

  “Your toast popped.”

  “It can wait,” he grumbles. “I want to know what you were playing at.”

  “I wasn’t playing at anything,” I tell him. “I was upset and I couldn’t believe you didn’t call. And then when you didn’t show up to take me to my Christmas party . . .”

  “I didn’t think you wanted me there!” he cries. “I assumed you were really angry when you didn’t call me back. And then finally I decided that we were acting like children and that I wanted to see you, but I didn’t even know where the party was! I called every hotel in the goddamn city until I found the one that was hosting it!”

  “Well!” I say indignantly. “When I hadn’t heard from you by five thirty, I assumed it was all over between us. I mean, it was humiliating showing up at my Christmas party without you! Everyone was like, Where’s your mysterious fiancé? Or should we say fictitious fiancé? I couldn’t believe you’d do that to me if you still cared about me!”

  “Jesus, Kerry,” he mutters, standing and going to the toaster. “All this stupidity could have been avoided if you had just checked your messages.”

  “I told you, my cell phone didn’t even ring!” I stomp into the hallway and grab my purse off the floor. I return to the table and rummage through it for my phone. “As you’ll see,” I say as I dig frantically. “I don’t have any . . . Uh . . . What the—?”

  “What’s wrong?”

  “My phone’s not here.”

  “Have you checked your coat?”

  As I head to the closet, it dawns on me. The other night when I dropped my purse on the doorstep and its contents rolled into the hedge, I’d thought I’d picked up most of my belongings, but in my distraught state I must have missed it! Barefoot, and in my robe and towel, I explode out of the apartment and scurry down the stairs.

  “Kerry?” Sam calls behind me. “What are you doing?”

  It is raining again, but I am oblivious as I jump off the steps into the soggy grass below. I crouch down, peering into the thick hedge that borders the building. My towel-turban catches on a thorny bush, and as I pull away, it falls from my head. I’m sure my wet hair has been molded into some kind of frightening hair sculpture, but I don’t care, because that’s when I see it. Nestled against the building is a compact, black-and-gray object. It’s my phone!

  I reach in and retrieve it, ignoring the brambles scratching at my sleeve and wrist. Despite being in the cold and damp for thirty-six hours, it appears to be working. The small display screen reads 4 NEW MESSAGES.

  I look up and Sam has joined me on the steps. He is looking down at me, but I can’t read his expression. One thing is for certain—it’s not a look that says, look at her cute hair sculpture.

  “Uh—my ph-phone,” I stammer. “It was in the hedge all this time.”

  “Come inside,” he says coolly. “You’ll catch a cold if you stay out here.”

  The letter arrives on Christmas Eve—an innocuous green envelope that would somehow change everything. I sift through the last mail delivery before the holidays, opening a card from my dentist’s office, one from the Shooting Star program and another from my dad. Inside is a sweet note and a money order for two hundred pounds. That’s quite a lot of money when converted—must be six hundred dollars! Or is it three hundred? Either way, it will probably cover the cost of the Christmas gifts I had to buy on behalf of my brother, who will never pay me back.

  It is in the last envelope, postmarked with an address I don’t recognize in Calgary, Alberta, Canada. As I open the Christmas card, a letter flutters to the floor. I pick it up and begin to read.

  Dear Kerry,

  I am writing to tell you that I have moved to Calgary. I wanted to call you before I left, but I didn’t get a chance to. Sorry.

  I left just after I got suspended. My mom went mental about it, and even my aunt was starting to rag on me all the time. I knew I couldn’t live with either of them anymore. I talked to my mom about going to Canada and she totally freaked at first. She said I was running away from my problems and that they would follow me wherever I went. But I told her I just needed a fresh start and things would be better in Calgary. Eventually she came around and even drove me to the bus station.

  My dad has been cool so far. He has a girlfriend named Donna who’s really nice. She doesn’t live with us but she’s here a lot. Dad converted his den into a room for me. I even have a computer I can use! (If you want to e-mail me, my address is chix_kickazz@hotmail.com) There is a school a couple blocks away where I will go in the New Year.

  Anyway, I hope you don’t think I am terrible for leaving and not facing up to things, but sometimes I think it’s best just to wipe the slate clean, you know? I will miss hanging out with you. It was fun but let’s keep in touch anyway. I hope you have a very Merry Christmas (and that your mom doesn’t drive you too nuts). Hope to hear from you soon.

  Your frien
d,

  Tiffany

  PS) You’re right. It’s pretty cold here.

  PPS) Have only seen a couple of “cowboys” so far.

  When I finish reading, I have a huge lump of emotion in my throat. I can’t believe she’s really gone. I’d had a feeling that she had more to tell me that day after our Christmas lunch—had she known then that she was leaving? I place the card on the mantel and refold the letter. I sigh heavily. Now that Tiffany is gone, I suddenly realize how much sanity she brought to my life. I don’t know if I proved any use to her as a mentor, but she really put things into perspective for me. Sometimes you do just have to wipe the slate clean.

  Sam’s laptop is still set up on the kitchen table from when he was working late last night. I will send Tiffany a quick e-mail to let her know I received her card and letter.

  From: Sam Miller

  To: Tiffany Cranston

  Subject: It’s me, Kerry!

  Dear Tiffany,

  I got your letter and card today. Thanks so much. I am really going to miss you but I wish you all the best in Calgary. I’m glad to hear things are going well with your dad. When you come back to Seattle for a visit, we can do something fun (I will e-mail if I hear WWF or RAW are coming to town).

  Tiffany, I don’t think you’re running away from your problems at all. I think you are a very smart girl and you know when it’s time to cut your losses and start fresh. I’ve actually learned a lot from you (I think it was supposed to be the other way around!).

  Anyway—I’m not on my computer, but my home e-mail address is ksinseattle@hotmail.com. Please e-mail back soon!

  All the best to you! Merry Christmas!

  Your friend,

  Kerry

  Chapter 31

  I survived Christmas . . . barely. Sam’s presence at my mom’s condo helped somewhat. She was less inclined to stick her tongue in Darrel’s ear when there was another male present to fawn over. The three of them seemed to have a great time. Sam put on a good show of adoring the hemp hat and vest, and wore them all Christmas day. He pitched in preparing the Tofurkey and a variety of salads, laughing and joking with mom and Darrel while sipping nonalcoholic spiced apple cider. And now, as I have so often over the holiday, I find myself alone in the front room, pretending to read Natural Living magazine while I contemplate the events of the past few months.